Antipas

Hidden from the darkness of our mortal sight, Hidden in the Paradise of lovely light, Hidden in God’s Presence, worshipped face to face, Hidden in the sanctuary of Christ’s embrace. Up, O Wills! to track him home among the bless’d; Up, O Hearts! to know him in the joy of rest; Where no darkness more shall hide him from our sight, Where we shall be love with love, and light with light, Worshipping our God together face to face, Wishless in the sanctuary of Christ’s embrace.

“Beautiful for situation.”

A lovely city in a lovely land, Whose citizens are lovely, and whose King Is Very Love; to Whom all Angels sing; To Whom all saints sing crowned, their sacred band Saluting Love with palm-branch in their hand: Thither all doves on gold or silver wing Flock home thro’ agate windows glistering Set wide, and where pearl gates wide open stand. A bower of roses is not half so sweet, A cave of diamonds doth not glitter so, Nor Lebanon is fruitful set thereby: And thither thou, beloved, and thither I May set our heart and set our face and go, Faint yet pursuing, home on tireless feet.

Lord, by what inconceivable dim road Thou leadest man on footsore pilgrimage! Weariness is his rest from stage to stage, Brief halting-places are his sole abode. Onward he fares thro’ rivers overflowed, Thro’ deserts where all doleful creatures rage; Onward from year to year, from age to age, He groans and totters onward with his load. Behold how inconceivable his way; How tenfold inconceivable the goal, His goal of hope deferred, his promised peace: Yea, but behold him sitting down at ease, Refreshed in body and refreshed in soul, At rest from labour on the Sabbath Day.

“As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.”

“Golden haired, lily white, Will you pluck me lilies? Or will you show me where they grow, Show where the limpid rill is? But is your hair of gold or light, And is your foot of flake or fire, And have you wings rolled up from sight And songs to slake desire?”

“I pluck fresh flowers of Paradise, Lilies and roses red, A bending sceptre for my hand, A crown to crown my head. I sing my songs, I pluck my flowers Sweet-scented from their fragrant trees; I sing, we sing, amid the bowers And gather palm-branches.”

“Is there a path to Heaven My stumbling foot may tread? And will you show that way to go, That bower and blossom bed?” “The path to Heaven is steep and straight And scorched, but ends in shade of trees, Where yet a while we sing and wait And gather palm-branches.”

Cast down but not destroyed, chastened not slain: Thy Saints have lived that life, but how can I? I, who thro’ dread of death do daily die By daily foretaste of an unfelt pain. Lo, I depart who shall not come again; Lo, as a shadow I am flitting by; As a leaf trembling, as a wheel I fly, While death flies faster and my flight is vain. Chastened not slain, cast down but not destroyed: If thus Thy Saints have struggled home to peace, Why should not I take heart to be as they? They too pent passions in a house of clay, Fear and desire, and pangs and ecstasies; Yea, thus they joyed who now are overjoyed.

Lift up thine eyes to seek the invisible: Stir up thy heart to choose the still unseen: Strain up thy hope in glad perpetual green To scale the exceeding height where all saints dwell. —Saints, is it well with you?—Yea, it is well.— Where they have reaped, by faith kneel thou to glean: Because they stooped so low to reap, they lean Now over golden harps unspeakable. —But thou purblind and deafened, knowest thou Those glorious beauties unexperienced By ear or eye or by heart hitherto?— I know Whom I have trusted: wherefore now All amiable, accessible tho’ fenced, Golden Jerusalem floats full in view.

“Love is strong as Death.”

As flames that consume the mountains, as winds that coerce the sea, Thy men of renown show forth Thy might in the clutch of death: Down they go into silence, yet the Trump of the Jubilee Swells not Thy praise as swells it the breathless pause of their breath. What is the flame of their fire, if so I may catch the flame; What the strength of their strength, if also I may wax strong? The flaming fire of their strength is the love of Jesu’s Name, In Whom their death is life, their silence utters a song.

“Let them rejoice in their beds.”

Crimson as the rubies, crimson as the roses, Crimson as the sinking sun, Singing on his crimsoned bed each saint reposes, Fought his fight, his battle won; Till the rosy east the day of days discloses, All his work, save waiting, done. Far above the stars, while underneath the daisies, Resting, for his race is run, Unto Thee his heart each quiet saint upraises, God the Father, Spirit, Son; Unto Thee his heart, unto Thee his praises, O Lord God, the Three in One.

Slain in their high places: fallen on rest Where the eternal peace lights up their faces, In God’s sacred acre breast to breast:— Slain in their high places.

From all tribes, all families, all races, Gathered home together; east or west Sending home its tale of gifts and graces.

Twine, oh twine, heaven’s amaranth for their crest, Raise their praise while home their triumph paces; Kings by their own King of kings confessed, Slain in their high places.

“What hath God wrought!”

The shout of a King is among them. One day may I be Of that perfect communion of lovers contented and free In the land that is very far off, and far off from the sea.

The shout of the King is among them. One King and one song, One thunder of manifold voices harmonious and strong, One King and one love, and one shout of one worshipping throng.

“Before the throne, and before the Lamb.”

As the voice of many waters all saints sing as one, As the voice of an unclouded thundering; Unswayed by the changing moon and unswayed by the sun, As the voice of many waters all saints sing.

Circling round the rainbow of their perfect ring, Twelve thousand times twelve thousand voices in unison Swell the triumph, swell the praise of Christ the King.

Where raiment is white of blood-steeped linen slowly spun, Where crowns are golden of Love’s own largessing, Where eternally the ecstasy is but begun, As the voice of many waters all saints sing.

“He shall go no more out.”

Once within, within for evermore: There the long beatitudes begin: Overflows the still unwasting store, Once within.

Left without are death and doubt and sin; All man wrestled with and all he bore, Man who saved his life, skin after skin.

Blow the trumpet-blast unheard before, Shout the unheard-of shout for these who win, These, who cast their crowns on Heaven’s high floor Once within.

Yea, blessed and holy is he that hath part in the First Resurrection! We mark well his bulwarks, we set up his tokens, we gaze, even we, On this lustre of God and of Christ, this creature of flawless perfection: Yea, blessed and holy is he.

But what? an offscouring of earth, a wreck from the turbulent sea, A bloodstone unflinchingly hewn for the Temple’s eternal erection, One scattered and peeled, one sifted and chastened and scourged and set free?

Yea, this is that worshipful stone of the Wise Master Builder’s election, Yea, this is that King and that Priest where all Hallows bow down the knee, Yea, this man set nigh to the Throne is Jonathan of David’s delection, Yea, blessed and holy is he.

The joy of Saints, like incense turned to fire In golden censers, soars acceptable; And high their heavenly hallelujahs swell Desirous still with still-fulfilled desire. Sweet thrill the harpstrings of the heavenly choir, Most sweet their voice while love is all they tell; Where love is all in all, and all is well Because their work is love and love their hire. All robed in white and all with palm in hand, Crowns too they have of gold and thrones of gold; The street is golden which their feet have trod, Or on a sea of glass and fire they stand: And none of them is young, and none is old, Except as perfect by the Will of God.

What are these lovely ones, yea, what are these? Lo, these are they who for pure love of Christ Stripped off the trammels of soft silken ease, Beggaring themselves betimes, to be sufficed Throughout heaven’s one eternal day of peace: By golden streets, thro’ gates of pearl unpriced, They entered on the joys that will not cease, And found again all firstfruits sacrificed. And wherefore have you harps, and wherefore palms, And wherefore crowns, O ye who walk in white? Because our happy hearts are chanting psalms, Endless Te Deum for the ended fight; While thro’ the everlasting lapse of calms We cast our crowns before the Lamb our Might.